I think you might have serious psychological issues.
A combination of PTSD and BDD,
resulting in an extreme form of misandry,
which you compensate for by completely disrespecting your own body.
With masochism as a defense mechanism,
and danger as stress relief;
your personal well-being is so far down on your list that it turns my stomach just thinking about it.
You're some kind of crazy and it makes me feel kind of sick.
How's that for a diagnosis?

Bad black widow;
The yo-yo queen.
7 different flies tied to 7 different strings,
attached to the end of 7 different legs.

Here's one bug that got away.

Surfing on the waves of the apocalypse,
our hero dives deep to grab the wings of angel fish
then spins with hands full 'til he's at the center of a whirlpool capable of drowning the world.

The reaper appears in the eye of a storm,
and as our hero peers into the depth of his cowl,
he's surprised to find a smiling caricature of his own face.

(This is the part where the main character blasts off into outer space.)

Armed with a bottle full of light,
he slays the wicked worms boring holes through his brain.
With the combined might of all the stars that remain,
he smites the dark matter beast before it can retreat to the unseen place between all things.

But victory is bittersweet,
as our hero soon discovers that he can no longer breathe.
For lack of the existence of gaps,
his lungs collapse beneath the crushing weight of everything as it condenses into one solid mass with an atomic number quickly approaching infinity.

Everything goes black,
then suddenly . . .
BANG!

Just because you're deep in thought,
doesn't mean your thoughts are deep.

Just because you're lost in dreams,
doesn't mean you're losing sleep.

Things are always what they seem,
except for when they aren't.
Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear to be,
if you know what I mean;
clearly blurry and vaguely crystalline.

Anyway, I'm hungry.
Let's go get a cheeseburger or something.

Love is like stepping on a nail,
then running.

Is that what the black-magic-matador is supposed to say as he pulls what's left of his cape out of the dryer?

Dyed blood red and riddled with holes,
but when you mess with a bull,
you get the horns.

"Alakazam," and it's out of my hands.
Stained white gloves hiding ***** tricks;
I'm washing them of you.

3, 2, 1 . . . now watch this:
I'm going to make every secret wish,
every half-expressed sentiment of longing,
every rabbit, dove, and remnant of love
disappear!

End where we started then start over again.
****** through the same side we spilled out of.
A pair of rings for fools and friends;
Crazy straw love.

Tangled then thickened to one mass.
Stripped in stark relief.
Strengths and weaknesses in high contrast;
sifting through our ashes.

I equate us to a figure eight
lying on its side.
Split down the middle -
we're nothing.

Carve the curve that craves the end.
Sliding out then in again.
Spiral arms unwinding;
Spin us toward the center.

Float it down the river;
a bottle with a note
full of fragile words and folded without hope:

"To whom it may concern,
I've grown weary of the worries -
worn down by the constant sound of thoughts spilling out of my head -
burnt out on turning down every opportunity to be saved.
One day, I'll get away,
but I'm in no hurry.
By the time you read this, I may already be dead,
but I might not be."

Standing in the sand with toes dug in deep;
watching the sun gleam off a bottle as it shrinks into the distance.
Goodbye to all the worst parts of me.

Hello horizon.

The only way to smooth the edges is to keep them tumbling constantly.

The smartest boy I know seems content to spend the rest of his life working a dead-end job at a pool store.

The most beautiful girl I've ever met feels compelled to hurt herself.

I scream into a pillow.
I scream out loud.

The brightest stars might never be seen,
because they're hidden by the clouds.

I've read the old poets and they're boring.
I've read the modernists and there might be something to it.
I've read my contemporaries and they're strictly hit or miss,
but I don't read my own because I know it's all ****.

It will be just how you saw it
in every way that it was promised -
only it won't be any of those things,
because it's really quite the opposite.

Only death lies for the just and honest.

Oh no, please say it isn't so.
I've allowed this thing to grow into something I can no longer control.
I'm somehow functioning past the point where I should have stopped functioning long ago.
The person who I once was,
the person who I wanted to be,
it's all just dust now scattered by the wind.
I don't even know who I am anymore.
Some stranger stares back at me when I look into the mirror.
He whispers, "you've become everything you've always hated."
I stare back and ask, "how does it feel?"

Santa's a ****, and he brought me no presents.
So what if I've been a bit unpleasant?
I did it on purpose!
You see, I've just grown so cold,
and I could get some use out of a few lumps of coal . . .

How do you save someone from themselves?
Is it even possible?
How can you interpret their cries for help
when they're in a language no else one understands?
Do you just give them a great big hug?
Maybe walk with them a little and hold their hand?
The truth of the matter is,
you can't save them.
No one can.

It spilled out and the ***** swept it up.
A ghost wearing sheets that were brought to your mouth.
Don't tell me 'bout things I don't wanna to hear about.
Don't talk to me right now.

A wraith in a dress and a ghost to impress.
A beast in the sheets with a white handkerchief.
Don't speak to me about things I don't wanna to believe.
Don't ever speak to me again.

The first embrace was electric.
The second was on fire.
The third was cold and frigid.

Lately, I've been thinking,
that maybe I've got a lot more left to say.
And maybe I got lost one day along the path that I'd subconsciously laid out for myself way back when.
I think you've been helping me retrace my steps.
I think that might make you a friend.

I've been thinking lately,
that maybe there are far too many words left unsaid.
Maybe I ought to stick around long enough to say them.
Maybe that makes me better off than dead.

My head has been swimming lately,
with all sorts of fantastical fish.
I wish I'd met you sooner.

Maybe the path that I long ago left is a little less buried than I thought it to be.
Maybe a shovel can dig a future as well as a past.
I think you've pulled me out of a grave.

This is my way of thanking you for that.

I wake up, alone,
to an alarm set by my cell phone,
and in a bed that's at least a thousand times more comfortable than my own.

Lost in the clouds where we stored all our dreams.
Fell to the ground in a million tiny drops.
Each one, a wish we don't remember making.

Leapt in the air and broke through atmospheres,
just to get some space.

We carved our names into the face of the sun.
Fell from the stars and hit the ground running.

No more phony saviors.
No more unasked for questions.
No more forced behaviors or unwanted confessions.

No more false prophets.
No more second guesses.
No more burnt synapses or blown out thought processes.

No more ****** mouths.
No more bitten tongues.
It's finally over now.
Finally, it's done.

The End to Ups and Downs -
forget about "c'est la vie."
There'll be nothing more from You now;
all that's left is Me.

From raw to refined.
A simple word, ill-defined.
Let's not get hung up on semantics,
but instead,
romanticize everything we've ever said;
about love,
about loss,
about life.
Everything is meaningless until it's been applied.

Supercilious satirists sipping scotch with seriousness
while discussing super silly stories
in a state of semi-deliriousness.

Windows into other lives.
Don't climb out;
You'll fall and die.

Bitter heart.
Bitter tastes.

Broken parts -
Pretty face.

Here's to you getting whatever it was that you wanted.
Here's to me never figuring it out.

Ring toss, you know,
where you try to get a small plastic ring to cling to the top of an empty bottle?
I've won it twice.
Both times, took home the biggest prize.

DUI's. I've had some close calls.
Passed a field sobriety test once,
but maybe she was just being nice.

Dice games;
I've only played three times in my life.
Lost a lot once,
but won big twice.

Social cues are common,
and should be hard to miss.
I find that social cues are oft -
hang on a second, I gotta take a ****.
* * *
What was I saying? Oh, right.
Social cues are awkward,
but I grew up in a weird environment.

Some people endeavor to portray a persona.
Some people perpetuate the beliefs of their parents.
Some people pretend to be somebody they've seen on TV.
Some people have trouble accepting that they're actually existing.
Some people perceive themselves as being unlike anyone else.
Some people have an aversion to personality profiling.
Some people just can't help themselves.
Some people feel a need to place everyone they've ever known into categories.

Left wing to the right wing,
and in between - almost everything.

Spin it back to the first track,
then move ahead - no turning back.

Spread them out,
now we're flying.

A feeling with no reason to doubt.

I dream of You.
I wake up to You.
I go to work and You're there.
Everywhere is You.

I come home to You.

When I'm alone,
there's only You.

Music is You.
Movies are You.
Every book ever written;
every word on every page:
You, You, You.
  
The sun, the world, and everything is You.
You are at the core of my being.  

I spend every day with You,
but I never get near Me.

Disappointments, like mistakes, are a painful but important part of the learning process.

An emotional exhibitionist runs into an emotional manipulator; sparks fly.

It's times like these that I wish you were still around.
I could use somebody to keep me from sleeping on the ground.

Your worry spoke volumes,
but I've since grown deaf.

You were caught up in living.
I'm hung up on death.

Notes speak louder than words.
I heard a chord that couldn't be whispered.
Lost in a whirl of secrets I swore I to keep.

Some things are best left unspoken.

A few leaked out.
Distance helped with that.
If the birds don't get them first,
we should be able to find our way back.

Surrounded on all sides by the sudden prospect of doom.
He attempted to create some more room between what life he had left and an imminent death.

"Time flies when you're having fun,"
so isn't the opposite true?

How many eons did he spend doing things he hated?
How many lifetimes he must of lived through;
loathing his dreary circumstances,
his hobbies,
his friends.

Surrounded himself with dullness in order to blunt the passage of time.

I mean, in that situation,
what would you do?

He forewent all sense of pleasure for the sake of a longer life,
but in the end,
he lost it too.

I've this bad habit of going to sleep fully clothed,
then waking up completely naked.
Not knowing for sure what happened in between.
How many of these things that I can barely remember ever actually happened?
How many were just dreams?

Hermits and heroes.
Pariahs and piranhas.
People are full of such contrasting colors.

Someone had to say it.
That gray area between black and white is so full of those lost in contemplation.
Without a doubt,
someone had to dig the moat that divides this sandcastle from the ocean.
The goal isn't to keep the water out,
but to let it surround us in a symbiotic relationship.

Someone had to do it.
Allow the sun to burn their skin in order to determine the value of a brand new tint.
A stint of concentrated consternation never did anyone no good.
Someone had to bite the bark to test the quality of the wood.

Somebody, somewhere,
traveled through light years just to glean a glow on a mystery that had always been misunderstood.
Someone had to go there first so that the rest of us could know.  

So here's an ode to all pioneers;
the bravest,
and most bold.

To do it clearly,
it'd take a book.
I'm not up for that kind of work,
so I'll attempt to cut it short.

You are but a part of a convoluted mix up.
A constant element in a periodic table of personal madness.
An important ingredient in the recipe of death and rebirth.
The other side of a mirror I'd gaze into in order to gauge my self worth.

Too vague.
I'm getting nowhere with this.
Let me try to put it into simpler words:

Identity crisis.
Bad acid trip.
Social experiment gone horribly wrong.
An attempt to live my life in accordance to the lyrics of a song.
180 degree turnabout of my own strengths and flaws.
Less weight for what I felt and more placed in what I saw.

You are just a part of my deepest plunge into what I thought it was to be insane.

This is far from enough,
and it's surely a mess,
but it's so hard to explain.

In truth, it's my go-to state.
I'll say it's not so bad when I actually mean that it's great.
Litotes and understatement -
that's my forte.

If I ever make the mistake of letting you get too close,
I'll soon compensate by pushing you far, far away.

Brilliant little lines etched out to stretch the time.
Minds placing X's and O's in an attempt to make straight lines,
but a circle never ends,
so let's pretend we're stuck in spiral.
Swirling through the twisted bits,
like DNA strands spinning in a double helix.
We're nothing but a mix of atoms mashed together.
An explosion of fused matter;
spattering the heavens with our essence.

Connecting the dots of isolated spots,
like how our ancestors drew lines between stars.
Seemingly arbitrary and haphazardly placed,
yet somehow defining what we are.

The scene dissolved easily once I realized she was bleeding.
Why'd you do that to yourself?
There's a discrepancy between what was seen and what's believed.
She could hardly believe it herself.

"I don't know why.
There's something wrong with me."

Nonsense.
I don't get it.
I don't understand.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

We hugged each other as hard as we can.
Could*

Would you believe me if I told you that life is worth living?
She says she's tired of swimming.
She says she thinks about suicide every single day.

*******, ___,
I love you.

Don't make me feel this way.

The other me is of the dastardly type.
Quite a *******, really.
The other me likes to stay out all night,
and is awfully fond of drinking.

He says, "Y'know what your problem is?
You spend too much time thinking."

The other me doesn't take advice.
He prefers to make his own way.
He says, "You've gotta stop going with the flow,
and start making some tidal waves."

The other me is good with women,
and often calls me gay.
He says, "You'd might as well be a ****** -
that thing between your legs gets no play."

The other me is restless;
uncouth, rude, and reckless.
He takes over sometimes for days on end,
then leaves me to clean up his messes.

The other me is an *******,
with no regard for anyone but himself.
Arrogantly vain,
he puts those who care about him through hell
and drives me completely insane.

Me and the other me got into a fight today.

It started when he told me that I need him.
"Come on man, I mean, honestly.
I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now.
You're nothing without me."

(The other me likes to use the word "harmony."
He says it's a precarious balance.
"Our togetherness is destiny,"
but he'd **** me if I ever gave him the chance.)

So I hit him first when he least expected it.
You see, he'd never expect it from me,
but he laughed when he realized his nose was bleeding,
so I hit him again and he dropped to his knees.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?
I thought we were friends . . ."
Then I leaned in real close and said,
"Stay the **** away during the work week,
and you can have every weekend."

You can sit in your bed,
and go through every conversation and situation,
and yet you'll never know why.

You can cry every last tear that you have,
for days on end,
and you'll still never know why.

You can say a million words,
or "sorry's,"
or even "I love you's,"
but you will still never know why.

You can lose hope more times than you can count,
and even then you will never know why.

And maybe that's just it;
Nobody's supposed to know.

I suffer from a disease that goes by the name of Loneliness.
It's an ancient affliction;
some sick kind of curse,
and those who know it best often boast: it's the worst.

But every now and then,
I look around me to see some fat cow in the company of a dead-eyed chudd -
spewing out a slew of inanities for lack of the cud.
He finally shuts her up with a kiss on the mouth,
as they walk off hand in hand.

I think to myself:
"How in the hell did they find a cure,
but I can't?"

A well oiled machine.
Its gears daily greased.
Cogs turning for centuries and shooting out steam.
An army of engineers to keep it running eternally.

Behind the smoke screen,
a lone projectionist screams for the audience to open their eyes -
to stop listening to the churning of mass produced lies.
(Shortly afterward,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Occasionally leaking blood from its seams.
An army of janitors assigned with keeping it clean.

A lone visionary decides to alter the design.
Creates a switch that will turn all fog into light.
(Right before he goes to flip it,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Built solely for the purpose of spitting out smoke,
and beneath it, a graveyard
of those who tried to throw a wrench in its spokes.

If we ever make it close enough to close the distance on these stars,
we'd surely implode on impact.

If I told you we are but constructs of a most complicated art,
would you stab me in the back?

If we held each other in our arms,
would we realize how full of **** they are?